


a man of honour (say no to this)

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: Risingverse - Telemachus, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, Your Cheating Heart, elves are weird, relationships that are not really abusive but are a really bad idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15392556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: And oh the sweep of lashes downward over eyes, the flush, the pretty flush of ears, and the look back up at me from those sapphires, blue as no Noldor-eyes are blue. Something in me jolts, and I wonder, for an instant, whether many things are different in that strange, wild Forest he calls home.He is not my love.But he is so very lovely, and I have burned for so long.





	a man of honour (say no to this)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [telemachus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/gifts).



> This fic has been in the works for more than four years. The first draft was written when I really should have been paying attention in freshman year bio; the final draft was written in an art museum in Germany. 
> 
> That's probably representative of some kind of personal victory, but fucked if I know what kind. 
> 
>  
> 
> title from, of course, _Say No To This._

And oh the sweep of lashes downward over eyes, the flush, the pretty flush of ears, and the look back up at me from those sapphires, blue as no Noldor-eyes are blue. Something in me jolts, and I wonder, for an instant, whether many things are different in that strange, wild Forest he calls home.

He is not my love.

But he is so very lovely, and I have burned for so long.

 

This night he combs with me, and with the other warriors. His hair shines pale golden among Noldor-dark. I take special care with him — I praise his beauty, his skill with bow and knives, his courage in going on this quest — oh the flush of ears, of cheeks, oh the pale gold of his hair, oh the softness of him, the sweetness.

He is not my love. Everything about him — his voice is not as my love’s voice; his hair, his eyes, are light where my Erestor’s are dark; he — is one to protect. He sees me not as I am. He sees only my legend.

But none see me as I am. Not even my Erestor sees me as I am, so long have I hidden myself from him, in my shame and fear.

Perhaps I wish to be seen only as my legend.

 

He seeks me out for combing again the next night. I am wandering, I find I cannot lie in reverie with my Erestor, I — burn.

He offers me his comb, looks at me with those lovely blue eyes, his ears flush — and I burn.

I comb him that night.

I do more than comb him that night.

I should not. I should not even be able to. He is not my love. But I do more than comb him, that night.

He — is lovely, he flushes, he writhes — he is not quiet. I put a hand over his mouth, put my mouth over his mouth, I fill his mouth with — other things. He cries out around me, his ears flush, and the whole time — my hands in his pale hair, on his flushed ears.

And after years, decades, of clutching at the edge of the precipice — it is glorious to finally, finally fall.

I do more than comb him the next night, and the next. And I hide from my Erestor, from my love, from my shame.

 

* * *

 

  
In Hollin there is talk. Talk of things that I — would not have known. And when the talk turns to me, I thank my Glorfindel, for this — this is a contest I can win, now.

“Elves do not,” Aragorn tries to explain, and I smile.

“Perhaps the lady Arwen does not,” I say, and conceal how little I truly know. “But I find that Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin most certainly does.”

And I do not know how I feel, at their faces, at Boromir’s shock, at Pippin’s laughter, at the dwarf’s surprise.

 

In Lothlórien they are welcoming, with hand and with comb.

I find — I find that, for the first time, combing is not enough.

I find that I burn. I burn for Glorfindel’s hands on my ears. In my hair. On — other places. I burn for him, I burn for this thing that is more than combing, of which I had not known.

I burn. And I run, and I fight, and it — eases the burning. But I burn.

  
  


* * *

 

  
My lord sends him on his quest. He tells me of mine: to go to Mirkwood, and inform King Thranduil of the whereabouts of his son.

I go, of course. I cannot stay. I cannot stay in safety while others fight — say it, Glorfindel, you cannot look your Erestor in the face.

I go to Mirkwood. The battle-joy keeps away the burning. My hair is new to them here — I am passed around, the golden warrior, new, shining. They do not see my shame. They see only my legend, only my hair, and I do not lack for combing here.

I find the King is — cool, sarcastic. That sweet Sindar prince, who flushed at even uninspired praise, who pressed into every touch — I learn more of the truth of his life here than I had imagined.

I fight. I take open joy in fighting — the wood-elves here take open joy in fighting, their king takes open joy in fighting. My battle-joy is a joy to be shared, here, and not another shame.

I do not burn. My love is not here, that sweet Sindar is not here, I do not have to face my shame. I am Glorfindel. I fight.

 

* * *

 

  
In Rohan, in Gondor, Gimli leaves the hall with others — with Rohirrim, with the warriors we fight beside.

And I am left to comb alone. And I burn. I burn for Glorfindel’s hands on my ears, and him — in my mouth, between my thighs, inside me — and I burn for what I can only imagine Gimli’s hands would feel like on my ears, and what he might be like.

I burn for Glorfindel. And I burn for Gimli, and I know not why.

  
  


* * *

 

  
I return to Rivendell, to my love.

And I find — I find that I burn again.

I hide from my love. I hide my burning, I hide my shame. I have missed him, he has missed me — there are a few, precious nights when combing him, and being combed by him, is enough. I am Glorfindel. I hold to my legend.

We ride to Minas Tirith with our lord, and there is that sweet Sindar. I — in my shame I pretend I know him not — I comb with my love — he comes to me for combing. For more than combing. “I — I have been burning,” he tells me, and oh the flush of his ears, the flush of his cheeks, the sweep of lashes over those blue, blue eyes.

I comb him, this night.

I do more than comb him, this night.

And I know that I have no honor, can have no pride.

 

I find — I find I cannot hide my shame forever.

I slip back into our room that night, and my Erestor is awake. His eyes are wide, and dark as Sindar-eyes are not, and cold.

I do not speak. I cannot speak. What can I tell him of my shame?

He gives me back my comb. “It seems the lord Glorfindel needs me not,” he says, in a voice that does not shake, and I long to cry out that I need him, that I love him, that I wanted only to protect him from this.

I do not speak. I cannot speak. I have no honor. What can I tell him of my shame?

He tells me — he tells me I have no place with him. That he will hold my comb no more, nor I his. That I am an oathbreaker, and forsworn, and that I have no honor.

I do not speak. I cannot speak.

I give him back his comb, wordless. I do not protest. How could I, when I am without honor, and he hurt by my shame —

I let him close the door.

I do not cry.

I am Glorfindel.

I go out to the courtyard, and practice with my sword, until I can fall into reverie with no combing this night.

   
 

* * *

   
 

I send him away, and only then do I break.

I comb alone. I fall into reverie alone. I wake, and I am alone, and I do not show my pain. I am Erestor. I bury myself in work, in books, in papers.

I hold tight to my anger, I let it push me forward, I let it fuel me now that love cannot. Will not.

I do not let myself wonder — if I had understood his moods better — were I younger, sweeter, fairer, more — one to protect — might he have needed me more? Might he have stayed with me?

I am Erestor. I will not show my pain.

 

Lindir — poor, sweet Lindir — is the first to ask where Glorfindel has gone.

“I know not,” I say, I let my anger make me cold. “I care not. Let him do as he will.” If I hold tight to my anger, it — it will push me forward, I will not break with the pain of it. I am Erestor, I will not show my pain — but I do.

Lindir puts a hand on my shoulder, and I find I can hold to my anger no more.

Lindir — poor, sweet Lindir — does not seem to mind.

  
  


* * *

 

  
This sweet Sindar and I — we go to Mirkwood. He speaks with one of the wood-elves there — one who it seemed missed him dearly while he was away — we ride away.

We hunt. We fight. We comb, and more than comb. He — is not my love. He is very lovely. He is very loud, I think there is not a ranger we have traveled with who does not know what we do at night.

He — is not my love.

For all that he cries out beneath me, I am not his.

 

I — I try to do right by him.

I keep him safe, I keep him fed. I — he is not my Erestor, I do not love this Sindar as I love my Erestor, but — he is all I have.

I try to do right by him.

And I know myself for one who has no honor, who can have no pride.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Never knew it (but of course I was)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360882) by [telemachus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus)




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